At Basantapur


In the courtyard of Basantapur

We sit down on the concrete stairs,

Watching the afternoon crowd

Mill around in the sunshine.


The clouds hang low on earth,

Almost touching the tallest pagodas.

The warm sun is going westwards

In the warm, azure sky.


The intricate wood carvings,

And the history, with its erotic figures

On the wooden struts,

Stare at us.


A mischievous smile flutters on your face.

You hold your breath.

For a moment, you let your eyes rest on me.


In all the beauty of this square,

Have you forgotten

That I am less than nothing?


Twitter @bibek_writes


Your Silence



A fevered squall of emotion stings my eyes

Every time I see you.


Your face pulls all the air from my lungs,

Leaving my heart thumping in sleazy desperation.


Your amber eyes, gleaming

In the cast of your own thoughts,

Freeze my whole being.


No emotions run along the soft,

Unblemished landscape of your face.

Your lips, embossed with dark secrets,

Are swollen to the everlasting silence.


Caffeine-alert in the darkness of the night,

Dewey-eyed, I look at the starry sky,

Feel your silence on my skin,

Smell it, taste it, and even hear it

In a dark space at the back of my head.


With a frozen face and a frozen heart,

Pieces fall and splinter around,

The cold seeps in, runs through my veins.


With eyes of snow, I paint you in the sky,

Connecting the stars, drawing the arcs.


An arctic dread of long-lost love blossoms

In the middle of the night, and your face,

The cold sun, a tender ravishment,

Crystalizes each cell, my every breath.


I plunge through the deep, undreaming darkness.

The fall is forever and ever.


There is no light, no light at all,

Only your silence perpetuates.



Twitter @bibek_writes

Two Poems on Love


It all starts with a quick, impulsive kiss
The soft press of her lips, swollen with sweetness.

Dissolving flesh to flesh, floating free,
Adrift in inexpressible kindness,
In undisguised vulnerability, in gentle loveliness,
He then plunges into a lapse of ecstasy.

Like a swan on a ripple-less lake—
His hardness strikes her softness,
His dryness kisses her wetness.

Lying down, he puts his arm around her waist,
His face next to the swell of her breast.
Rolling on the top, his weight on his palms,
He moves into the perfect paradoxical palace
Of hot resistance, of damp surrender—
A sanctuary of passion and peace.

Everything falls away—
Thoughts, ideas, anxiety,
Ego, ambition, poetry.

A subterranean spasm courses his body,
Leaving him drained of everything
But peace.

Tired and sore, she wants the ache.
Atop him, opening like a soft, wild mushroom,
Silently poking her face up
Through the dead leaves on the ground,
Opening under the sheltering wings of the night,
She wants to split into two.

But she doesn’t want to see his face—
Red and furious, he’s always blowing up too quick,
Crying a hoarse, unearthly cry, twisting his face
In a paroxysm of saintly mortification.

She wants to clutch his face, choke it
With a rampant motion of her hands,
Siphoning all the ecstasy from his body
Into her secret flowering.

On days like these, when she collapses,
The Zen-like whooshing of her breathing
Is like wailing in the eerie quiet
Of this pit of gray light.

Her chest heaves, her body quivers,
Leaving her drained of everything
But peace.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Silence, I know you


Silence, I know you

so well that you are like

a lover, a forgotten princess

from a forgotten history.


But, tell me, when was the

last time I wrote about you?


Do not take me wrong—

I didn’t mean to hurt you,

nor did I mean to ignore you.


Look, even now I am sitting

by the window contemplating you,

watching the birds

fly from the branches,

hearing their songs,

breaking the silence-filled air.

I still forget myself in you,

& melt in the grey evening.


Observing their fragile bodies,

slender feet, little beaks,

I think of a line of verse,

whisper it

three times

until breath becomes air.


Silence, my quiet lover,

I always think of you—

your soft memories,

your dreamy voice,

your tender touch,

& I try to decide

whether it is a kiss or a bullet—

but in vain.

Twitter @bibek_writes

February Fourteenth


The black clouds near,

Rapidly rolling their convolutions.

A gust of wind bends the poplars,

& at once comes the rain,

Pattering down on winter leaves.

Puddles of water running over the gravel

Carry off a scattering of yellow leaves.


Everything seems wrapped

In a drifting darkness.

The weather sinks deep in my soul—

Somberly melancholic, numbly despairing—

I sit by the window,

& stare with brooding eyes.


Afterwards, the sun comes out,

Lightens my little room

Like a golden bed lamp, with soft touch,

& the sky turns white as porcelain again.

The ducks quack,

Sparrows shake their wings,

& once more it is warm.

The bedlam that broke awhile

Starts to cease, & now

Lulled by the brightness of the sun,

Smothered by it, I sink again

In a state of gloom,

Ruminating over my stark & bereft



Twitter @bibek_writes

This Grey Evening


A well-known solitude
Closes around us
& here we lie—
Passive & exhausted,

With eyes wide open &
Hearts closed & enclosed together,
While solitude keeps caressing us
With its gnarly and knotted hands.

Here is no sound
Except the constant
Da-dum of our beating hearts.
The momentous conversation

Of the avocado leaves
In the wind
Has already stopped.
Your eyes close & they open.

You look at the ceiling,
Then, at me—
At my shoulder.
Your lips murmur

Soft vagueness on my body.
A languid shudder runs
Over my naked soul
& you laugh

& keep laughing, drunkenly
Until I finally know
The touch of your breasts,
The sweet secret odor

Of your dark triangle
Of love,
Which now passes
Through me.

Burning, impassive, exhausted,
We lie tied together
Here like grapevines
Of immortality.

& thus ends
Our nude jubilation
With soft solitude
This grey evening.

Twitter @bibek_writes

This Bright Afternoon


There is softness in the air.
Somebody plays the flute
In a neighboring house.

From the next room comes
A woman with candid & gentle
Face, framed with ash blond hair.

With a smell of bougainvillea
A voice floats in the warm air.
& she takes off her clothes—

Bright blue camisole &
Maroon panties—her armpits
Stink of old French perfume.

She climbs naked into my bed
Winter is in her hair & the smell
Of December alights her body.

In the warm sunlight
Through the green curtains,
We lie naked, winter in our mouths.

On the curves of our twined bodies
Lingers the finger of memories.
While our souls sway in the air,

Luminous like our bodies
Enclosed in each other & together
This bright afternoon.


Outside cherry branches with
Flowers shiver in the crisp air
Of cold & warm December.

Twitter @bibek_writes